Elizabeth blinked at her. “Hmm?”
“Would you have wished for him to… return your affections?”
Elizabeth’s throat worked. A week ago, she would have had an answer. A week ago, everything seemed so simple for her.
Now… she did not know.
Theairwasthickwith the remnants of London’s daily filth—coal smoke and damp, the scent of overripe refuse lingering even in the wealthier parts of town. Darcy stepped out from the Home Office, rolling his shoulders, exhaustion clawing at the edges of his thoughts. He had spent the better part of the day poring over ledgers, speaking in carefully neutral tones to men who knew more than they admitted, men who gave him just enough information to be infuriating but never enough to be useful.
His patience had worn thin.
He did not go home. Instead, he walked.
Long, deliberate strides carried him through the streets, past darkened shop windows and flickering gas lamps, his thoughts pacing just as relentlessly.
Someone powerful wanted this buried.
Someone was probably watching him by now.
And despite all his talents, his considerable connections and abilities, he was missing something.
The thought gnawed at him as he crossed into Mayfair, weaving through the last of the evening’s carriages and the occasional late-night reveler. Somewhere in the city, the truth was lying in plain sight, obscured only by the careful placement of numbers in ledgers and names hidden behind layers of financial obfuscation.
His estate. His name. His family’s honor.
He should have been thinking of that.
Instead—
“Well, well,” came a lazy drawl from just ahead. “Now here is a sight I never thought to see again.”
Darcy stilled.
He did not need to look up to know who it was.
George Wickham was leaning against the rail outside White’s, the remnants of an expensive Havana dangling from his fingers, his coat slightly askew in a manner that might have been fashionable if it had not been so careless. His hair was a touch too long, his smirk a touch too smug, and every inch of him radiated the kind of easy, indolent confidence that made Darcy’s teeth clench.
“Lord Darcy,” Wickham greeted, inclining his head ever so slightly. “Or is it simply ‘Mister Darcy,’ these days? What is your proper title now? Or has the crown finally seen fit to return you to your former glory?”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. He should have walked away. Wickham was not worth the effort, and Darcy had long since sworn to himself that he would not waste breath on a man who had profited so handsomely from his family’s ruin.
And yet—
The smirk. The drawl. The sheer gall of the man standing there, dressed in the finest of his stolen wealth, leaning against the railing as though he owned the world.
Darcy’s fingers curled into fists. “How fortunate,” he said coldly, “that you have taken such an interest in my affairs.”
Wickham’s smirk deepened. “Oh, but I always have, Darcy. It is something of a habit, you see—taking an interest in things that used to be yours. Or rather, things thatoughtto have been mine from the start. Strange, is it not, how the world sees fit to balance itself?”
Darcy inhaled slowly through his nose. He refused to give Wickham the satisfaction of a reaction.
“How is Pemberley?” he asked instead. As if he did not already know the answer.
“Ah, Pemberley.” Wickham exhaled dramatically, as if indulging in the mere idea of the estate. “She is as lovely as ever, though I confess, I have not been giving her the… attention she deserves.” His gaze flickered to Darcy, deliberate and taunting. “I am sure you understand. Busy men, and all that.”
Darcy’s pulse drummed against his temples. He had known, of course, that Pemberley was being mismanaged. It had been plain in the letters his former neighbors had sent him, in the carefully diplomatic phrasing of the housekeeper who still reported to him in secret. But hearing it from Wickham himself—seeing the satisfaction in his face—was another matter entirely.
“One ought to be careful with such treasures,” Darcy said evenly. “Neglect has consequences.”
